


The Adventure Of The Bad Baron (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [42]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Kidnapping, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock sets out to thwart the plotting of a modern-day evil baron, in one of the most depressing places on earth.





	The Adventure Of The Bad Baron (1886)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis and the Netherlands-Sumatra Company'.

I had never thought the career of a private detective was particularly glamorous, or that I, as the mere recorder of my friend's more memorable cases, should expect to visit exotic and/or exciting places. Indeed, several of his cases were solved without his ever having left Baker Street. But this particular case took us somewhere that, I have to say, deserved a position on the list of the most depressing places on Earth. Never mind the Sahara Desert, the North Pole or the middle of the wide Pacific Ocean; Port Victoria Hotel in Kent was right up there!

This was also the case where, by his actions, Sherlock prevented a disappearance, told a bare-faced lie, and exposed one of the more unusual criminal types that we would ever encounter together. 

+~+~+

“How do you feel about who?”

I stared at my friend across the breakfast table, where he was as usual busy consuming a pig's worth of bacon (yes, his and half of mine). Ever since our return from Berkshire, my work had been much busier than usual, the closure of the rival surgery a few miles away having vastly increased our workload. It meant more money in the bank - which for me was always welcome - but also long hours and little rest. When poor Peter Greenwood had, to his eternal embarrassment, fallen asleep whilst with a patient one day, the McConnaugheys had finally been alerted to the situation, and had insisted that each doctor take a full week off to rest, locums (loci?) being brought in to help cover the absences. As the most junior doctor I had had to wait until last, but finally my week had come around.

Added to that, it should be said, I would have been lying if I had not admitted to myself that my relationship with Sherlock was not what it had been prior to his prolonged absence. That and the recent discovery that he had not told me about his funding the local orphanage had made me a little edgy, fearing as to what else he might be keeping from me, and if any part of that would result in his leaving me again.

“Who?” I asked, confused. Sherlock waved the letter he had been reading at me.

“This is from the Earl of Halstow and Cliffe”, he said. “He requests my services to investigate ongoing threats to kidnap his son and heir, Osbert Baron Rotherhithe.”

I frowned.

“Is it not rather odd to _threaten_ to kidnap someone?” I asked. “As you have said on more than one occasion, the advantage always lies with the offender, who can choose time and place of their attack. Forewarning the victim's father seems to nullify that advantage.”

“This situation is somewhat unusual”, Sherlock said. “He asks me to spend some days at a new hotel that he has invested in, a place called Port Victoria on the Hoo Peninsula.”

So that was what he had meant by 'who'. Hoo, not who. 

Look, I knew what I meant!

“I know of it”, I said. “It only started up a few years ago. The South Eastern Railway opened it not long back as a rival to Queenborough, across the Medway. They described it at the time as 'the beginnings of a great port'.”

“It does not sound a promising venture”, Sherlock said, “but it does mean several days by the sea. I know that this is your long-awaited holiday, but... would you be interested in accompanying me?”

He looked as if he actually thought that I might refuse. I smiled warmly.

“I would be delighted, my friend”, I said. 

He beamed at me.

+~+~+

Several hours later, I was musing on the price of friendship. We had arrived at Port Victoria and settled into our rooms, which were comfortable enough. But the location... well! 

We had had to change at Gravesend to a little branch-line train, which took an hour to rumble its way across the apparently empty Hoo Peninsula (think Mars without the exciting bits!), before drawing to a halt on the pier itself. The place had been wreathed in Thames fog, and had looked utterly unwelcoming. And judging from the guest-book it was not exactly overbooked, there being only three sets of names and addresses above ours.

Sherlock wished to meet our client as soon as possible, but unfortunately His Grace had taken his son out for a walk (where? We were at the end of a damn pier!). Fortunately we were still changing in our rooms when a message was brought to us to say that they had returned. We duly went down to meet them.

Peregrine, eighth Earl of Halstow and Cliffe, was an imposing figure, for all he was not yet forty years of age (and if Sherlock mentioned my occasional and totally irregular interest in the society pages again, there was going to be an argument!). The nobleman had married young and against his father's wishes; the union had been happy, if bittersweet. May, Countess of Halstow and Cliffe, originally a shop clerk from London, had given him the much-desired son and heir, but doctors had warned her against further children. Regretfully as it turned out she had failed to heed that advice, and had died giving birth to a daughter, who had also died. The earl was still regarded as a fine social catch, but it was the opinion of the society pages (or the very few that I chanced to read on the rare occasions I may have found myself the vicinity of such articles) that he wished to remain single.

Damnation, Sherlock was looking at me again!

The earl's son stood beside him, and was.... well, definitely not imposing. Osbert, Baron Rotherhithe, was tall, gangly and very much the adolescent teenager. Eighteen years old, he reminded me a little of Sammy at his age, clearly still growing into his overlong limbs. His mother, I knew, had been of Viking blood - Norwegian if my memory served me correctly - and his ancestry showed in a hawkish face beneath an untidy mop of fair hair. He was also clearly someone who was aware of his position in life, although he was evidently trying not to look down at the indigent I had apparently brought with me that day.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, the earl said, surprising me by his inclusion of myself. “I am assured by the doctor's works that you practice absolute discretion for your clients, if warranted. This case will certainly merit such.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Of course”, he said. “How may I be of assistance?”

The earl turned to his son.

“You may leave us now”, he commanded.

The boy looked as if he were thinking of arguing, but thought the better of it, and left. The earl turned back to us.

“Tell me, Mr. Holmes”, he said, “what do you know of my family?”

“I rely on my good friend the doctor for society information”, Sherlock said teasingly. I managed to shoot him a dirty look before the earl turned to me.

“Your family has Saxon roots”, I said, “but came to prominence for their part in facilitating the escape of the future Charles II after the disaster at Worcester in 1651. When he came to the throne nine years later, he rewarded your ancestor by creating him Earl of Halstow and Cliffe. Since then, the family has prospered, especially after your late father was wise enough to buy land that he knew would be needed by the expanding railway network in this county. You own Julich Hall, one of the residences of Henry VIII's much-maligned fourth wife Anne of Cleves, and do not attend social events as a rule. Osbert is your only son, your wife having died in childbirth fifteen years past. Two years ago Mrs. Forth accused you of being the father to her child, but was forced to retract the accusation then it was proven that you were in different countries around the time of the conception. You quite rightly sued for damages, and settled for a large donation to a local charity.”

He stared at me in surprise. Sherlock chuckled.

“A veritable social encyclopædia!” he smiled. “I am thinking of hiring him out!”

He was not close enough for me to swat at him, worse luck.

“It is a threat to my family that I am concerned about”, the earl said. “It is also one reason that I asked to meet you here. That and, as the doctor has correctly noted, my dislike for both London and society.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Six months ago”, the earl began, “I received a letter...”

“What was the date?” Sherlock interrupted.

“March the eleventh. I remember it because in the same post I received an invitation to go to the dog-show that had been in all the newspapers, that communication having gone astray due to an error in the address, as the show had just started. The note itself was a short one; it merely said that exactly six months and six days from then, my son would be kidnapped.”

I glanced at the calendar. Today was September the fifteenth. Only two days left.

“Was the note signed?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, oddly enough. The name was 'Baron Maupertuis'. As I do not socialize, I was compelled to ask Osbert if he knew the name. He did not, but went down the library for me and found out some information. The man is the owner of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, and a thorn in the British Empire's side. His company is almost certainly involved in what little remaining slave trading there is in the Indian Ocean, despite our naval patrols. The Baron himself is intensely secretive, and it is believed that he lives somewhere in Luxembourg. The newspapers speculated that his income and his expenditure, and I quote, 'do not march favourably'.”

In short, he is a fraudster, I translated. 

“Did you keep the note?” Sherlock asked.

“Sadly, no”, the earl admitted. “I deemed it a hoax, and threw it into the fire.”

“Yet you still got your son to check out the details”, I pointed out. He smiled at me.

“I only have one son, doctor”, he said. “If anything were to happen to him, the Halstow line would die out.”

“Would not someone else inherit the title?” Sherlock asked.

“The estate, but not the title”, the earl said. “The title can descend by the direct male line only. My estate, should my son - heaven forbid! - predecease me, would go to a cousin in Scotland, whom I have never met. My lawyer tells me that he is a quiet man in his early fifties, and works as a clerk in a bank in Edinburgh. He is married with three children of his own; I maintain a distant eye on him in case he ever needs my support, but he does well enough for himself. Osbert has promised to continue that watch.”

“Apart from your son, did you tell anyone else about the kidnapping?” Sherlock asked.

“I did not even tell him”, the earl said. “I merely asked him to investigate the Baron's name, and find out what he could. He did not know that I had received the letter, as he was out when it arrived.”

“Tell me about the second letter”, Sherlock said.

“That arrived two weeks ago, and basically repeated the threat”, the earl said, taking it out of his pocket and handing it to Sherlock. He looked at it in surprise.

“This is a telegram”, he said, sounding almost accusatory.

“Yes”, the earl said, puzzled. “Is that important?”

“It may be”, Sherlock said, reading it. “Nothing new in the body of the missive. Sent from a London office, but then it is quite easy to instruct an associate, even one in another country, to do that. When did you get the third one, pray?”

The earl looked surprised.

“How did you know that I had received a third one?” he demanded.

“You came here for only one reason”, Sherlock said. “Security. Yet from your uneasiness, something has happened to make you realize that that ploy has not worked. Hence a third communication.”

The earl nodded.

“It was waiting for me on my bed when we got here”, he said, pulling it out of his pocket as he spoke and handing it to Sherlock.

I knew the implication of that. There was no road access to the hotel, and it was a long walk from the nearest habitation, which meant that the person who had been in the earl's room was almost certainly either staff or a guest at the hotel. Sherlock read the letter, but said nothing, although there was a familiar light in his eyes which suggested that he had spotted something. He looked at his watch.

“Dinner will be served shortly”, he said. “I think that the doctor and I should take the opportunity to view the other guests, my lord. We still have at least one clear day before this 'kidnapping' would be attempted. Let us make good use of it.”

He stood, bowed, and ushered me out and back to our rooms.

+~+~+

He came to my room before I was ready, as I was struggling with my cuff-links.

“Was there something in the third letter?” I asked, finally clicking them into place.

“The message simply iterated the threats from earlier, and again focussed on September the seventeenth”, he said.

I looked at him.

“But you still saw something”, I said.

“You are getting to know me too well”, he smiled. “I will need to send off a telegram to confirm my suspicions, but if I am right, then this case is a very strange one indeed!”

I nodded, and resumed my battle with my recalcitrant cuff-link. He smiled, took my sleeve and did it for me. Having him that close to me was unusual, and I found myself gazing into those blue eyes and wondering – was he keeping anything else from me? Anything serious?

+~+~+

The Port Victoria Hotel was not exactly the Ritz or the Savoy, but it was well-designed, light and airy, and we reached our table before any of the other guests. We ordered dinner, and as it arrived, a whole group of people entered the room within a few minutes of each other, dispersing to various tables. I recalled the notes that I had made from the guest register, and examined each in turn.

At the table next to ours must be Colonel Carnforth and his family. He was a bluff, elderly man with a long moustache, probably approaching sixty years of age. His pretty wife was considerably younger, little more than forty, and spent much of the meal trying to get their sons to behave. The fraternal twins Albert and Alfred Carnforth were somewhat boisterous young lands of about eighteen years, and their brother William was a quiet boy of about sixteen. The Colonel had invested some funds in the hotel, I knew, and his sons were all at the same school as Baron Osbert, the elder two being in the same year as him.

Further away were Miss Mary Colindale and her companion, Miss Augusta Bell. Miss Colindale was about fifty, and had the air of someone who enjoys going to different places so that she could subsequently bore her friends to tears about them (I had more than one such patient at the surgery, and had once somewhat stretched the truth maybe just a little by advising her against talking 'because it might damage her throat'!). She was dressed in a stiff black dress, though not mourning as there was no veil. Her companion was around thirty years of age, rather plain and clearly subservient to her mistress' every whim. Sherlock saw me looking, and leaned across.

“There is no reason why our 'Baron' could not be a lady”, he teased.

“We know that he lives somewhere in Luxembourg”, I retorted. Sherlock chuckled.

“Using the name of a known recluse could be a ruse”, he pointed out. Damnation, he was right!

I turned my attention to the third table. The lone man sitting there must by deduction be Mr. Sweyn Haraldsson, from Russian Finland. He was around thirty years of age, very muscular with white-blond hair and, unusually, stubble. With his huge figure and eyes almost as blue as my friend's, his Viking ancestry clearly showed (Sherlock had one mentioned that his mother was descended from Viking stock, which had not surprised me in the least).

“There is a man who could crush someone with little effort”, I murmured, once the waiter had gone.

“He is a Finnish separatist”, Sherlock said, spooning far too much sugar into his coffee as usual. What with that, his cakes and his barley-sugars, it was a miracle that his teeth were still perfect. “He is seeking financial support for his country to declare independence from Russia one day. The earl's mother came from Norway, so he might be sympathetic to his cause.”

“But a ransom for an earl's son would yield a lot more than just a donation”, I pointed out.

Sherlock was looking at the Carnforth's table, his head tilted to one side. Then he smiled, and looked back at me. I sighed, and carried on with my dinner.

+~+~+

We supposedly had one more day of peace before any attempt was to be made on the earl's son, but our breakfast the next day was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the earl himself. 

“It is happening!” he burst out before we could react or ask what has apparently happening. “The hotel received a telegram today. 'Require one room for night of September seventeenth, arriving late same evening'. And it's signed 'Maupertuis'!”

He was clearly panicked. My friend gestured him to take a seat, and reluctantly he did. 

“Where was the telegram sent from?” Sherlock asked, chewing on a piece of (my) bacon. 

“There is no place of origin”, the earl said. I thought that odd, but then I supposed some foreign telegraph offices did not operate to the same standards as English ones.

“Where is the nearest telegram office after the hotel?” Sherlock asked.

The earl had to think about that. It calmed him down which, I suspect, may have been my friend's intention.

“Either Gravesend or Sheerness”, he said. “I suppose someone could take the morning train to Gravesend, send it from there, and return after a few hours. Or they could take the ferry across to Sheerness or Queenborough; both places have an office. They might even row across; it is not far, and the hotel does have a boat.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Do you still think an attempt will be made?” the earl asked anxiously.

“If the telegram I sent yesterday yields results, then I hope that it can be averted”, Sherlock said mildly.

“Hope?” the earl almost shouted.

“Calm down, Your Grace”, Sherlock said placidly. “I see that our Finnish friend has gone for a walk again.”

“What?”

“I think that Watson and I will take the sea air”, Sherlock said, much to my surprise. “I would like to have a further discussion with you this evening, assuming that I hear back from my inquiry. Would it be possible for Colonel Carnforth and his family to attend?”

“You want Tom's family there?” The earl looked nonplussed. 

Sherlock chuckled.

“Teenage boys find this sort of thing interesting”, he said. “Come, Watson.”

I felt like a dog being dragged off by its master, but I followed obediently after him.

+~+~+

If anything, my opinion of the new resort sank even further during my walk. The foggy weather was perhaps not helping, but the long stony shoreline seemed even less interesting close up. I was staring across the Medway when Sherlock suddenly spoke.

“I am sorry.”

“For what?” I asked, momentarily nonplussed.

“For not telling you about the Boys' Home”, he said, and I could feel the almost preternatural heat from his standing close to me. “The truth is, my friend, it simply never occurred to me. It was not that I was keeping it from you; I simply did not think that you needed to be told.”

“I see”, I said. 

We walked on for some little way before he spoke again.

“You are afraid that that is not the only thing that I kept from you”, he said softly.

I was. And - I was grateful he had not said as much – I feared that amongst any other hidden or untold information might be something that would take him from me again.

“I wish I could tell you why I had to go away”, he said, and even without looking at him, I knew he was sad. “It was an intensely personal matter, and it has not yet been fully resolved. But that apart, I would never knowingly withhold anything from you, friend.”

Oh Lord, I was going to have a Moment!

Obviously my credit with the Lord must have been high at that point in my life, as we were both suddenly distracted by someone a little way ahead who was throwing stones into the river. I was never more grateful for the distracton.

+~+~+

It started raining before we got back to the hotel, so we both went to change out of our damp clothes. When I rejoined my friend, it was to find that his desired telegram had come. Sherlock smiled as he read it, and I looked over his shoulder to see what was such good news.

'Brackley Mills paper', I read. 

Well, that made everything clear. As mud! He saw my chagrined look, and smiled.

“Chin up, dear friend”, he said. “I doubt you will be able to write this case up for some time, but if you ever do, it will definitely prove to be one of the more curious ones.”

I pouted, and followed him down the stairs. 

+~+~+

“My father is feeling tired”, Albert Carnforth said apologetically, “and my mother has adjourned to their rooms with Billy. But we would love to hear about your deductions, especially what you are going to do about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, apparently nonplussed.

“The kidnapping is due tomorrow”, Baron Osbert pointed out. Sherlock smiled knowingly. 

“There will be no kidnapping”, he said. “I am quite sure of that.”

“How?” the earl demanded, as his son and the two elder Carnforth boys sat down. Sherlock leant against the fireplace and smiled.

“I am going to recount a small story”, he said. “It concerns a man who feels that his country has been badly treated by the tide of history, a tide he thinks that he can reverse. But that of course, needs money.”

“Mr. Haraldsson!” I burst out. To my surprise however, Sherlock shook his head.

“The country in question is Luxembourg”, he said. “That state has suffered more than most from the depredations of war, with parts being sliced off by France, Prussia and most recently Belgium, so that it is less than a quarter of its original size. There are many who deem that an injustice, and few more than Baron Philippe de Maupertuis.”

“His family is ancient, Huguenot in more recent times but dating all the way back to the Capetians. They escaped the French Revolution by buying lands in Luxembourg, only to see the bulk of those lands seized by the Belgians in the 1839 revolution. So there is a personal element to his crusade, to add to the rampant nationalism.”

“I do not think, Your Grace, that you were targeted for any personal reason. However, an earl who has only one son and heir is far more likely to pay a ransom than one who has six more as 'back-up'. Was there not an instance in English history when King Stephen threatened to kill a young William Marshall in front of his father John, only for the latter to scornfully remark that he had and for that matter could make more and better sons?”

“The Baron left his home in the duchy two days ago, and spent yesterday travelling to the port of Flushing, from where he intended to catch the ferry to Queenborough, just across the river. However, anticipating such a move, I telegraphed to a particular hotel, which I know caters for people of his class, and fortunately my message was delivered to him. His reply confirms that he knows the game is up, and that he cannot attempt any such move. He is returning home, and is probably already there.”

I stared at him in confusion. How did a message about paper convey that?

“That is wonderful, Mr. Holmes!” the earl beamed. “You have saved the day! And you shall not find me ungrateful.”

“Thank you, sir”, Sherlock said. “However, I think you have a rather more pressing concern at this precise moment.”

“What is that?” he asked, puzzled.

“Miss Colindale has decided to return to London by the evening train, and is taking the charming Miss Bell with her”, Sherlock said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “If you wish to catch them for, ahem, any reason, you will need to attend to it right away!”

The earl blushed, but excused himself and hurried away. Baron Osbert sighed.

“Thank Heavens that is all over!” he said.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said, sipping his wine before fixing the boy with a stern look. “And you should all be ashamed of yourselves, gentlemen!”

There was a shocked silence, as the three boys looked at him.

“What do you mean, sir?” Albert Carnforth said in an unsteady voice. Sherlock turned to Baron Osbert.

“That you agreed to let your friends plot a fake kidnapping is shameful!” he said sharply. “Your name is a long and honoured one, yet because you think your father does not grant you a large enough allowance, you schemed something like this!”

He was genuinely angry, and all three boys cowered away from him. I simply stared in shock.

“Sir.....” Alfred Carnforth began.

“I know everything”, Sherlock said mercilessly. “Three mistakes gave you away. Firstly, your father said he did not tell you about the attempted kidnapping, yet you, my lord, told me that it is tomorrow. Only the writer of those notes, or one of his confederates, would know that.”

I wondered if the young man was going to faint. He had gone very white.

“Secondly, you made the mistake of writing the notes at school”, Sherlock said. “Doubtless you thought it safer than at home, where you might be discovered. However, you are probably not aware of it, but schools always use a specific shade of ink for writing, unavailable to the general public and detectable by those who know how to look for it, as I do. And thirdly, your school is located not far from the Brackley Mills Paper factory, and obtains large quantities of its paper from there. Because of the chemicals they use, the low-quality paper has faint red marks on it, normally indiscernible but visible under a magnifying glass. I sent a telegram to the school yesterday, and today they were kind enough to confirm that that indeed is the paper they use. As it is only supplied to them and industrial users in the area, the messages came from the school or someone in it. I dare say that a search of your bags and rooms would reveal drafts and sheets of similar paper.”

Judging from the redness on all three faces, he was right.

“What are you going to tell father?” Baron Osbert asked, staring intently at the carpet. Sherlock drew himself up.

“Nothing.”

They all stared at him in shock. As did I. He leant forward.

“But understand this, gentlemen. My friend and I will be keeping a sharp eye on the progress of all three of you in the coming years, and if there are any further 'incidents', no matter how small, which suggest that you have taken even the slightest shuffle further along the criminal path, then both your fathers will be informed. That, I guarantee!”

All three boys muttered thank-yous, though none of them could look Sherlock in the eye, and slipped out as soon as they could.

“Was that wise?” I asked. “Letting them get away with it?”

He sighed.

“I know my criminal classes, Watson”, he smiled. “They took one venture into criminality, and nearly lost everything. They will not tread the path again, whereas if I informed one or both of their fathers, the results would be... unpleasant. Colonel Carnforth would be ashamed of his sons for their actions, and as you saw, his health is weak enough as it is. The earl would be devastated, but would feel that he has to stick with his son, no matter how badly he had behaved. No, this way, everyone has a chance to move on. And perhaps one day, when they have all moved on far enough, you can talk about your story concerning how I averted the end of the peer.”

I looked at him in horror.

“That was just bad!” I protested.

He snickered.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: The earl did indeed pursue Miss Bell who, fourteen months later, became the new Countess of Halstow and Cliffe, and provided the earl with a further son and a daughter. However, Baron Osbert – who justified my friend's faith in him and did not stray from the path of righteousness again – could be have fairly said to have secured the line himself. He married a charming lady from Wales and proceeded to have some _fourteen_ children! The same 'success' did not come to Port Victoria however; although it experienced a brief renaissance when a storm closed Queenborough at the start of the twentieth century, the pier was shortened in 1916 and the hotel closed in 1931. 

+~+~+

In our next adventure – to which Sherlock was most definitely not allowed to supply the title! - someone wants to kill my friend, and finds an ingenious way to do it.


End file.
